No Friend To Haunting Whispers
Within this every now we know as life:
a singlet, without gravity of purpose,
provides a modicum of lack.
An only ear we listen to that cannot hear us back.
In that instant, sound will echo a fleeting distant cry,
a tremble slight that might at times come try,
press our thought, engage in whisper,
and speak to no one there:
I too have heard so clear the pain
a poet’s heart must bear;
to love and so embrace it all
as if thou were the air.
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